Tag: fic

the power of yes

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“Get on the floor, next to the bed, on your knees,” Göring instructs Goebbels, and he quickly scrambles down to the cold, hard wood.

(Once, as they sat side by side, Göring’s slow regard of him slanting more predatory by degrees, he had asked, do you miss Confession, Goebbels? Turning his rings on his fat fingers. You must, I’ve heard that sort of…upbringing is impossible to completely scrub out.)

“Lower,” Göring says, maintaining an aura of the beneficent and, a queasy yet unavoidable lurch in Goebbels’ stomach, the paternal even while he grips the back of his head and pushes him lower beneath him, trapping him against the bed, smiling at the tremble in Goebbels’ shoulders

(Your lot must have some more grandiose term for it though? The amusement in Göring’s voice had Goebbels turn his scowl toward the window, wanting to deny him the satisfaction, wanting to bite back at the implication of ‘your lot’, to tear apart the utter audacity of Hermann Göring of all people to scoff at grandiosity. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, quietly, the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation.)

This isn’t a ritual or an unburdening of sins. Those aren’t the things he misses. He looks up at Göring’s cock, the bed frame is a dull ache at the back of his skull. Göring smears his erection around his cheeks, lips, forehead, and back again and again. The hot, wet tip of his prick slides against the side of his nose and presses against his eyelid, leaving a sticky stripe of precome in its wake. The oily salt-tang of it fills his nostrils. A tiny retch hiccups at the back of his throat.  

“I am going to fuck that pretty little face,” Göring says, then pulls Goebbels’ head back, so he can look up into his eyes as he positions his cock in front of his mouth.

(All the words spilled out of him in the end, escaped while he wasn’t watching. Göring pressed a thumb against his mouth to stop him but he continued until the outpouring became a trickle, stuttered in-between desperate flicks of his tongue and the suckling of his lips around Göring’s fingers until finally there were only two words left.)

“Yes, please,” he says in a soft little tone, widens his mouth and sticks out his tongue.  

Baton

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The contrasting black of my baton flatters Peiper’s features, the dark eye sockets and pale lips. I stroke him with it, poke his face, pressing into the hollow under his cheekbone. He looks bored, demonstratively, but I can tell he’s getting so excited already, his eyes scurrying when the tip of the baton grazes his lips. Implication of fellatio. His breathing halts. I apply light pressure to part his lips, a fraction of an inch like a whore does it to attract her customers. Now he stares at me, cold blue, hard steel, judgemental, disgusted. Ironic. I’m not the one getting off on this.

I drop the baton down on his chest. Disappointment flickers over his face. Now now, not so fast, I’ll give you what you need. I draw a vertical line down his torso. No condescending look can hide the tenseness of his body. He once took out a tank by climbing on it and dropping a grenade down the hatch. Hard to believe now, him being so small. Finally I find a warm, soft spot to rest the tip of my baton. There is recollection in his eyes and then expectation on the verge of want.

Remember me now? I gave his balls a good whack some time ago and fondly remember the sound of him panting, muffled by the hood, when he rolled on the floor, cramped up around the pain. Might do it again if he misbehaves. Until they pop. I was a little disappointed he couldn’t keep our little moment to himself, the braggart. Had to tell everyone what a brave soldier he was. But I’ve seen his hands shaking then, I heard his voice breaking.

Did you miss me? Emphasized with a light tap on the soft parts. He jerks forward. The good officer is so eager to earn his wound badge. All the others already have their medals. Black eyes, broken ribs and broken teeth and occasionally strangulation marks and pissed pants. Fine medals. But this prisoner here is too precious to break. Not even that Jewish butcher will touch him. It must be so frustrating, waiting every day for your turn.

The way he looks at me. Defiant doesn’t even come close to describing it. But every challenge is also an invitation. He knows that. Strip. More invitations in the curl of his lips and the red of his cheeks and the discovery that his body looks entirely too boyish for a man of his age. A crescent moon of dirt under my fingernail disappears into the flesh of his chest just below a white, circular scar. His heart it racing. He wishes he didn’t want it so bad. Left unattended it will tear him in two, tragically. I’ll make you feel better.

The baton connects with his face with a meaty thud. Once, twice. A red line pours out from between his lips. Sorry, sir, he fell down the stairs, no, practically threw himself. You know how they are. Another blow to his thigh. He stumbles and falls and cowers from me like an animal, crawling away on his hands and knees. Where are you going? We’re not done here. He’s hyperventilating. Sounds like he’s in heat. His back is bent so that his vertebrae stick out like nails stretching the skin, like they could break through if I made them. One hit on his back drives the air out of his lungs. I count the seconds until he draws breath. Like a drowning man, half a dozen times and increasingly more frantic. When I hit him again, the rhythm breaks, his arms give out, his forehead smacks on the ground. I stop. I mustn’t break him.

With weak arms he raises himself on all fours again and coughs, blood dripping from his mouth, speckling the concrete floor under him. He looks at it and laughs and then turns to look up at me. He’s smiling wide, euphoric. His teeth are pink with blood, his eyes wet with tears. Didn’t think the sourpuss could be that happy. Suddenly my urge to hurt him wanes. I feel drained like after a good fuck. Lazily I kick him in the balls. He moans. I realize he does that just for me. Sickening. “Thank you,” he says when I leave.

Scene From a Birthday Party

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Hermann comes down glittering and really it should be ridiculous but that’s not the feeling tying Joseph’s guts into tight little knots. Hermann is strutting; effortless, enormous and graceful and commanding, all eyes on him and Joseph’s as well naturally – his stomach turns queasily at the knowledge he’s just part of this crowd, caught in this eddy too, unable to resist though he knows better.

Up close he can see a peacock swipe of colour across Hermann’s eyelids. He’s powdered and rouged and draped in some chimeric confabulation that’s half Roman emperor and half Renaissance Duke.

“Really, Joseph?” Hermann is smiling but the reproach feels genuine as he looks him up and down in his drab little suit. “I did tell you to wear something appropriate.”

And he does feel out of place amidst this close circle of party goers in masks and feathers and gold. He tries to summon the will to feel disgust at them, at their opulence, even at Hermann’s corpulence which is excess made flesh, writ large, in the most literal way.

What he feels is paltry and ragged. What he feels is the desire for Hermann to pull him in close so his nose is pressed into the soft, fragrant patch of skin behind his ear – the private scent of Hermann’s flesh.

You’re abhorrrent, he wants to say, looking at the way Hermann has painted his lips, the way it matches the nails on those hands that could crush the very life out of him, that have been, in spectral form, pulling the trigger on an ocean of arms vast and ceaselessly moving as the shells of beetles in some gargantuan infestation.

“That could have been my birthday present you realize.” Hermann smiles from ear to ear.  

“What?”

“Really, Joseph,” Hermann repeats, though whether this echo is a question or a statement seems uncertain. He makes a small gesture that has someone immediately scuttering along to hand him a flute of champagne which he presses at once into Goebbels’ hand.

Later, as they sit together on the couch and Joseph toys with his empty glass, rolling the stem between his fingertips and trying to retain his borders, Hermann tells the white-blond boy who comes to refresh his drink to stay and stay must mean kneel since that’s what he does, at Joseph’s feet, irritatingly beautiful – though almost sexless really, like the statues he saw in Greece where the chastity of marble was self evident and all appreciation could be pure.

The boy touches his knee and Joseph swats it away unhappily.

“Let him touch you,” Hermann says.

He strokes the back of Joseph’s head and the lazy, feasting way Hermann’s eyes roam over his body almost make him capitulate. There’s so much certain authority in the way Hermann pets him, as though the warm drag of each firm finger is remaking him as a simple ornament for Hermann to play with and no denial of his could ever change this fact.

“Can’t you call over one of them?” Joseph snaps, flinging a hand in the direction of a gaggle of girls in skirts short enough to flash their garters with every little movement.

“I’m just trying to make you more comfortable,” Hermann says.

“Comfortable with what?”

“Accepting pleasure, without these parochial restrictions of yours.”

Goebbels considers the smug, pitying look on Hermann’s face. The condescension washes over him in a hot wave not unlike arousal. He lifts up his refilled glass as though to make a toast and then, quite definitely ceremoniously, upends it over the boy kneeling in front of him who gasps and sputters and looks to Hermann with wide, lost eyes.

Hermann only laughs and effortlessly pulls Joseph closer to him, ignoring the black little look Joseph knows is scrawled across his face from the tightness in his jaw to the vein at his temples, pulls him in with one strong arm around his waist and  kisses him on the forehead so Goebbels can feel the greasy smear of his lip colour marking him and calls him his dear sparrow and beckons over another tray of champagne.  

Alamut

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It’s not often they have a night alone together. At times they can carve moments out – on Hermann’s train where the door can be locked and stiff and diligent men steadfastly ignore any noises that come from the compartment they’re guarding. 

But when they do, Göring likes to sleep with his arms around Goebbels, his forearm resting against his throat. A claustrophobic feeling – that huge body warm against his back, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other pressing against his windpipe just enough that he feels controlled, knowing that he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

When he wakes early, in the grey before dawn, still half caught in a dream of typewriters, he feels Hermann’s arm tightening around his throat. Another hand starts making slow, soft circles on his belly, growing wider and wider and edging closer to the throbbing urgency between his legs.

He bucks his hips but the forearm against his throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe. He doesn’t care about the lack of oxygen, it would be better to choke himself to death if he could rut against the hand pressed between his thighs. His balls are drawn up close to his body, he’s dripping from the head of his cock.

He leans back and tries to turn his head to kiss Göring but Hermann tightens the grip on his throat again and slaps his cock.

“Stay. Still.”

No gentleness in his voice at all, but the fingers gliding over the wetness leaking from his prick are feather-light. Goebbels whimpers with every breath, and every breath is a struggled gasp as Hermann chokes him.

“Please,” he manages to force out.

“Shut up,” Hermann says.

And pushes all the way inside him without hesitating and despite how those fingers have stretched and felt their way inside him it’s still almost too much.

There is no better feeling than the pain of Hermann’s cock driving into him and the pressure of his grip around his throat and the sense of possession, of being his.

Hermann thrusts into him deep and hard. Now he’s melting and moaning and bucking against him, pushing back on the cock that’s fucking him so beautifully.  The moan that comes from him is a despairing plea.

“Shhhh. Good boy,” Hermann says. “Go back to sleep.”

His forearm tightens just slightly against Goebbels’ throat. Göring’s fingers slide into his foreskin and his knee pushes between his legs, holding him open. There is no part of his body he has control over.

Monday, November, 1938

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“I know what you want,” Göring murmurs the words in a low somnambulant purr that drifts up from the wide chest where Goebbels’ ear is resting and out through his mouth, barely audible.

Goebbels isn’t sure Hermann’s not sleep-talking, honestly, despite the fact that every so often one eye will crack open a touch and consider Goebbels inscrutably for however long it takes for him to reach a satisfactory judgement of what he beholds. Perhaps it’s merely, as Göring had snapped earlier, to check that Goebbels is still tucked next to him on the bed and not off tossing all of Emmy’s good glassware from the windows.

“What do I want?” Goebbels asks, playing with the ridiculous lace adorning the front of Hermann’s nightshirt idly. The jagged edge of a nail he does not remember biting to such a sorry state catches and he pulls it free with a grimace. Hermann pays no attention to either the question or the grumbling little flurry of movement.  

Of course it’s the drugs that have sent Göring off to the land of Lotus-eaters and Goebbels would have his objections at any other moment but he will admit, for now (no warranty for even so much as an hour younger than the present) and only silently to himself (an unscrupulous biographer he trusts on necessary sufferance  and since he is a prophet and not the one to employ prophets) that after the entire lousy uproar of the week. It’s nice.

It’s the first time since the unpleasant business at the air ministry (where naturally Hermann had to throw his weight around and bellow and stab his finger into his palm and all about the economic question for pity’s sake) that each spare space in any room between them  hasn’t felt as though it were packed with thorns.

Goebbels is more careful with the lace this time as he passes his hand across the broad, solid expanse of Hermann’s belly. He does it again and is startled by the sound of his own sigh. Like an out of body experience to witness his own hunger. The weight of Hermann’s body draws him, settles the pricking knowledge of so many whisper cloaked daggers behind his back –   the sheer, unabashed presence of so much Hermann Göring: a bulwark to all of it. He stretches his greedy fingers over the country of Hermann’s body and then brings them back to himself.

(His own whispers asserting even now as he rubs Hermann’s stomach in relief and adoration that of course it had been him, Goebbels, who had been the more gracious in admitting perhaps there had been some calculations that had not occurred to him. Or a complete lack of calculation at all as Hermann may have, possibly, most emphatically, put it.)

“You don’t understand what I want,” Goebbels whispers. Partly to Göring.

He can feel the smile in Göring’s fingertips when a heavy hand finally works it’s way into his hair and takes hold.

Intervention

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“Have you been getting carried away?”

Meyer’s voice, gentle, mild, and the rough packed earth scouring Peiper’s cheek. Meyer holds him against it, kneeling beside him. When he shifts his weight the crackle of his boots on the frozen ground reverberates against Peiper’s ear.

“I’ve only-”

He stops, scowling as his hair falls into his face. He tries to blow it away and Meyer helpfully assists, yanking him an inch off the floor by his roots.

“What about in here?” Meyer asks and rags his head from side to side as though he’ll shake Peiper’s thoughts out that way. “Isn’t it nice when they shiver and beg?”

“It’s disgusting.”

Meyer nods.

“I understand.” Pausing. “It’s no good you know.”

The water in the trough in front of them is thinly glassed with ice. Peiper sucks in a frantic breath as his head is slammed through its blistered surface  and held down, cold slicing like knives into his lungs. The fist in his hair pulls him free before shoving him immediately back under.

His knuckles scrap against the side of the trough, a distant hollow clamour. Expansive pain, like a flare glittering in his chest. Just as he’s starting to fear Meyer will drown him whether he means to or not, he’s tossed back onto the floor and slapped hard on the sternum, three times. Water sprays from his lungs in a bitter arc.

Puddles of water darken the earth around him. Meyer hauls him up to his knees, he sways a little. Meyer’s hard hand trails a line of tenderness across his cheek, draws back. Peiper doesn’t flinch. The creases on Meyer’s face when he smiles are well-worn and genuine. His eyes move over Peiper as if he’s studying a field map. Looking to see where he can inflict most damage.  

“Think of something nice,” Meyer says. “I know you can.”

He steps closer, tapping the holster of his gun. He smells like cordite and oil and a brute arousal that breaks through the antiseptic chill of the air like the steam of their breath. Peiper’s eyes are fixed on the pistol, the tap of Meyer’s finger. He thinks of blood on the barrel, not the messy blow back from a shot to the head but from hard steel flaying the back of a throat raw. He pictures himself with his finger on the trigger, someone else on their knees.

Meyer gives him a knowing look. “Going to share?”

Peiper tries to work his jaw free of the clench that’s come from the constant, crippling cold in the room. When Meyer touches him it isn’t to tip his head back or slide his palms into the hollows beneath his cheekbones. Instead, he puts a hand on Peiper’s left shoulder –  digging inquisitive fingers into the stressed tendon until Peiper’s forced to wince – and another on his left wrist and begins to apply torque.

“Tell me about the bad thoughts, Jochen,” Meyer says, peering into his face.

Reflexive tears make his vision swim. He feels a scream building that will stay in his skull long after his elbow has been forced from its socket, imagines Meyer prodding at his dislocated joint with all the callous curiosity of a child poking a stick at a dying animal.

Meyer lets go of his arm.

“Can’t have you coming to proper harm now, can we?” he says, jovial. Peiper, panting, barely registers the fractious rub of a thumb across his lower lip as Meyer continues. “I’ll just have to assume the worst.”

Jochen Peiper/OFC

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One last time to let the heat of the stew warm her shaking hands as she set the bowl down beside a platter of bread and potatoes for him. One last time to smooth a wrinkle on the tablecloth adorned with flowery prints for him. One last time to step back from her work to make sure that everything as perfect as it can be for him. It was not much, she had to admit. The meat in the stew was far too few, the bread old, and the potatoes lacking spices. Hell, the utensils did not even match each other! But that did not matter any more. This will be the last time she would ever do this for Jochen.

She knew that being involved with him was wrong. The man was married with children, for the love of god. How could she be so stupid to fall in love with him? And to actually believe that he loved her back? She was not even his only mistress. That was how much she was worth to him. Why would she even care about what he would think about her tablecloth? He had no right to do so, and, if he wanted to, he could marry her or at least leave his other mistresses for her.

Unbidden, tears stung her eyes, and she hastily blinked them away. Jochen was not worth the tears. There were other men – better men out there, men who would be faithful husbands. Yet, when a knock at the door announced a visitor, she bounded to it like the obedient pet she was and swung it open. The sight of Jochen flashing his charming smile at her was enough to burn away her previous thoughts, and she fell into his arms like dough – ready to be moulded in whatever form he wished.

In one swift motion, Jochen swiped down to kiss her on the mouth – a chaste kiss that reminded her of the carefree childhood years when there had been no war and when romantic relationships were nothing but light-hearted games. Perhaps that was what drawn her to Jochen, whose boyish demeanour and playful attitude reminded her of days gone by; but little did she know that his playfulness only meant that she was nothing but a toy to him.

Pressing his forehead against hers, Jochen professed how much he had missed her over the months, how much he had thought of her everyday; and she, caught in the moment, nodded and believed him, failing to note how he had smelled like another woman or how his eyes had sparked with mischief, instead of a certain depth reserved only for official duties. Was there truly anyone who has seen the hidden depths of his eyes? Or was Jochen that private of an individual that he hides it behind a blank stare in which shallow emotions only ripple through it like a stone thrown across an ocean?

She did not know as she kissed him again, content and amazed at how soft his lips were against hers. She had kissed other men before, but none of them were as delicate as Jochen. Many of them had short prickly hairs on their upper lip that, though not at all unpleasant, was quite distracting. But Jochen never had that, in fact, he was always smooth and so clean-shaven to the point that she wonders if he ever grew hair at all. Kissing him was kissing a sense of individuality in a world wherein rigid masculinity was advertised as the only sort of manliness, because, even if Jochen was softer than most men, he exuded an air of authority and unquestionable bravery that some of the most exorbitant men lack.

“Would you like to come in?” She whispered between pants, wanton desire pooled in her stomach and flooded her nether regions. Jochen nodded silently and followed her inside. He gave her no time to offer him a meal as his hand at the small of her back subtly pushed her to where he wanted her to be. He kissed her neck hungrily when they fell onto her mattress as his fingers tore recklessly through the buttons on her blouse. She moaned when he ran his palms down to her core, his thumb pressing her clothed clitoris when he reached the end of her midsection. Soon, her skirt and knickers were off, leaving her bare for Jochen to prey upon.

Yet, instead of forcing himself upon her, Jochen eased into the mattress and pulled her on top of him, smirking when she promptly undid the button of his pants and took out his erection from the restrictive confines of his underwear. She played with his cock as if she were in a trance, mouth slightly open, eyes dazed, and hips grinding down blindly for anything that can lessen the pressure in her core.

“Suck my cock,” Jochen muttered below her, voice low and even. With neither another word nor a complain, she slid her torso downwards until her mouth was positioned directly at the tip of his erection and then took the organ in. Jochen snorted in amusement at the sight – he, laying down on his back with someone above him, still remaining to completely in control of the whole situation. That was how he sought the favour of those around him – how he made everyone believe that he was their sweet little Jochen who can do no wrong.

With her mouth around his dick, she bobbed her head obediently, shifting between a slow deliberate pace and a fast shallow one. Jochen whimpered in pleasure, causing her to flick her eyes to his face in order to catch every second of his reactions. And, Jochen did what he knew she wanted. He moaned her name in that breathless tone she loved, told her how good it felt in between perfectly timed gasps, and shivered according to her actions. Jochen always knew that people desire to be validated, and that was exactly what he does to the people who matter in the course of history in exchange for unsaid rewards and consideration. Soon, she was moaning around his erection, sending thrums of vibrations from the tip to the base and making Jochen let out a rather embarrassing cry of pleasure.

“Enough,” he groaned, breathing deeply through his nose to stave off his orgasm, and pat his thigh as if beckoning a dog. Whispering an okay, she straddled him and let him slip through her entrance. She watched in delight as Jochen fluttered his eyes shut. It was a sight to behold – the face of ironic innocence. How a man so untameable, rough, and sinful be akin to a helpless and vulnerable puppy baffled her.

Mouth agape, she ran her hands through the dark blonde strands of his hair as she ground her hips against his. Jochen trembled and cursed softly when she began to move at a rate particularly favourable to him. Hearing Jochen curse always made her snicker. Such hideous things seemed completely out-of-place in his world – his accent was too aristocratic and clean, his choice of words proper, and his mouth delicate.

But what of the disturbing reports of Jochen in the front-lines? What of the horrible news she had heard of that delicate mouth commanding his subordinates to raze a village to ashes? What of the rumours about that aristocratic drawl being the reason why more than twenty unarmed prisoners-of-war lost their lives in a short span of ten minutes? Would simple swears be so out-of-place then?

She stared at the man beneath her and bent down to kiss him. She had wanted to kiss those horrid thoughts away, to assure herself that her Jochen could not have done such crimes; but he declined her that comfort. Instead, he canted his hips fervently and greedily took whatever pleasure her body can offer until he spilled his seed into her without a care for consequences. Feeling the warm rush of semen inside, she cried out in distress and tried to wrest herself away from him, but he gripped her hard until he was drained and breathless.

“I have to leave,” Jochen then said when not even ten minutes have passed since they had sex. She shook her head into his shoulder, but he pretended to not know as he pushed her away. She watched as he got dressed and felt her stomach drop when she realised that this would be the last time she would allow him to come see her, to let him use her like some cheap whore. Strengthening her resolve, she followed him to the door and tugged the sleeve of his coat just as he walked through the doorway. Jochen turned to her with a questioning gaze, and she opened her mouth to forever ban him from her home. Yet, no words came, even if she had practised this moment for months; because, in the end, Jochen Peiper always got what he wanted.

Hunger

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What do you want? Goebbels asks him, despairingly, a little broken shrill note creeping in to the end of his plea like a hiccup after beginning so earnestly in low, deep tones, the black depths of his eyes, skin luminous pale; porcelain, not marble, he looks as though he might shatter at any moment and how Goering enjoys seeing him like this, exposed by hunger, pleading.

Not defenceless, even crazed by desperation he’s not that. His teeth shine sharp, inhuman, his lips draw back to put them on display. But he can’t just take.

And that’s where Hermann has him.

Those old wives’ tales have such much wisdom to dispense. How vampires can hypnotise, how they can entrance. But they always need an invitation. And as it seems…not just over the threshold, not just into your hearth and home, but to feed as well.

Goebbels is gasping on his knees, his nostrils flaring, pressing his tongue flat to Hermann’s arm and Hermann allows it, allows him to lap over and over again at the soft inner skin of his wrist, over his pulse – this little keening choking sound coming from the back of his throat.

When at last Hermann tells him what he wants (I am the administrator of the Prussian state theatre, your ministry will cease trying to muscle in) he’s barely cognisant of it. He nods feverishly.

He only hears the yes and then he’s feeding.

The blood comes so fast it feels like he’s suffocating on it, this sublime asphyxiation. He’s choking on it at the same time he’s trying to rut against Hermann’s great bulk and when Hermann pulls his wrist away he still juts his hips against the air and his tongue falls out of his mouth and he whimpers.

“Yes, whatever you want,” and he snaps his teeth together.

But it’s seeing Goebbels pant and beg and rut against his leg that makes Hermann imagine what he could do for him. What Goebbels never asked for, but what he can take, Just the gasping cry as he pulls away.

This lovely exotic creature, his fangs showing. There’s a pretty golden collar to put around his neck.

Caesar

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“Show me,” Kurt said, “how did they patch you up?”

A tremor went through Max’s body, hardly noticeable were it not for Kurt’s hand on his stomach, placed there like one would place one’s hand on a small animal, careful not to break it.

“Perfect, good, it’s fine. It won’t be a problem at all,” Max said, his gaze fixated on Kurt’s forehead. The sweat on his upper lip exposed the lie. That was unacceptable. “Then show me,” Kurt said, smile drawn up to his eyes, which in contrast to the friendly curl of his lips perfectly matched the cool tone of his words.

The shrapnel had grazed Max across the stomach like a Caesarean section, a horizontal cut a hand width below his navel, just under the waist of his pants, which had clearly pressed and rubbed on the bare skin for a while. The cut was roughly stitched with thick, white thread now turned pink, the same colour as the sore skin around the cut. The blond fuzz of his lower abdomen did nothing to hide the condition of the wound. Kurt comically tilted his head and bent down to examine the piece of body exposed to him. Having scrutinized it for as while he pressed his index finger on the cut. Instantly, like a gun firing as you pull past the last resistance on the trigger, Max’s abdominal muscles clenched, very obviously so to Kurt, who was almost close enough to kiss the quivering body. He shook his head disapprovingly. “So this is what you call good, Max? It looks awful, frankly disgusting. They didn’t even bandage it and now look at it. Appalling.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Max repeated through clenched teeth. It was endearing really, in good spirit, but also entirely stupid and dishonest too.

“Ah, Maxi, Maxi, Maxi.. It’s really admirable what you’re doing,” Kurt said and he followed the line of the cut with the tip of his finger as if to emphasize how much praise Max deserved, causing the exact opposite effect, painful punishment. The gash in Max’s flesh though felt exciting, above and below was the soft, fuzzy skin and in the middle the sharp, very faintly moist edge of the cut and it was trembling too when he touched it. It was the sort of thing you wanted to touch again not just instinctively like an itching scab but deliberate and consciously, to feel every tiny sensation it had to offer, like the wet cleft between a woman’s thighs. The stitches were so far apart that when Kurt pressed on the slit, lips curling again in that familiar u-shape and a delighted twinkle in his eyes, the flesh yielded, split like a thin mouth and spread open to reveal the red, wet insides. Max gasped.

“Does that hurt?” Kurt asked pulling one corner of his mouth up even further, the crooked smile looking particularly cruel. Max nodded slowly as if any hasty movement could cause the finger to be plunged into the wound on its own. “Splendid,” Kurt said and with that word he did push into Max, under his skin, just a bit, but enough feel the wet heat inside and more than enough to make Max squeeze his eyes shut and groan, the sound rolling from the back of his throat and trembling when he exhaled it. Kurt thought it sounded an awful lot like the sort of noise Max made during orgasm.

Once the first onslaught of sharp external pain had faded into the dull pain of internal penetration Max looked down at Kurt again and that funny looking finger inside of him, eyes wide, struggling to comprehend the reality of the scene. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, don’t you agree?” Kurt said, winking. He gently curled his finger inside of Max like he would do inside of a girl to feel the rough texture that made her clench around him, but it felt all the same inside of Max, like freshly cut meat and fat skin that he could peel off if he wanted. He rubbed it anyway to see what would happen. There was that groan again, more controlled but still ripe with memories and then Max put his hands on Kurt’s shoulders, steadying himself that way to endure the pain, breathing out loudly every time Kurt teased him with another caress.

Max had that particular quality of instantly recognizing and submitting to authority of any kind, whether authority deriving from chains of command or from charisma. He fit right in, without complaint, doing his duty and what qualified as his duty was not up to him. It was essentially a good quality, but horribly encouraging to men of sadistic character. Fortunately Kurt loved him too much to find any enjoyment in prolonged abuse. “Well done, boy,” he said as he pulled out, drawing one last gasp. “You are not going to lie to me again, are you?” Max shook his head and still panting smiled wide. When Kurt squeezed his shoulders, mirroring where Max was still holding onto him, Max bared his teeth into a grin that swallowed all of his other features. They looked like two very happy hyenas about to embrace each other.

Brothers

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Manfred von Richthofen indulged in few pleasure. He did not enjoy smoking or drinking, he was not particularly fond of social get-togethers and aside from his also rather practical fur coat he didn’t care much for luxuries. Some said he was so Prussian he had taken Frederick the Great’s decree to heart. The old Fritz had once proclaimed that his generals and officers were not to take wives as they were already married to their military service. Little did they know how close to the truth they came. While the Prussian king had no part in Manfred’s convictions what he had in common with Frederick’s officers was, that the sought the company of men over those of women. But where Frederick’s officers had entertained themselves with rent boys they picked up in the establishments and parks of Berlin, Manfred preferred his comrades. These boys were of little appeal to him, being entirely too soft and weak-willed, he might as well have slept with women, which even to think about was already too stressful. To have to go through the chore of courting, to take the initiative, push himself on some fair lady or boy – it was against his nature. It was however not against his brother Lothar’s nature. Lothar was always at ease with everyone. When he walked down the street he made the ladies turn their heads. Not because he was Lothar von Richtofen, the ace pilot, but because he was tall and handsome and looked like he could be anything he put his mind too. His smile was disarming and plenty of men he did disarm.

When Manfred first watched Lothar work his magic on a young pilot it had been an accident. Lothar had been too drunk to remember Manfred was there at all and the pilot, fresh from flight school, had been too star struck to protest either Lothar’s irresistible advances or Manfred’s presence as Lothar took him. Manfred had watched that tangle of bodies, rosy flesh, the red of their arousal and the white of their release, and Lothar’s firm grip on the young man, which bent him as he wished.

It had soon become Manfred’s favorite way of relaxing after the battle to watch his brother fuck a man. It was just like when they used to go hunting together. While Lothar was still too young to shoot a rifle, he had only fetched the prey that Manfred dropped. Once Lothar had turned old enough to hold the gun himself their roles changed. Manfred had little interest in the act of killing itself, taking the shot, watching the prey scatter or fall. He enjoyed stalking, reading tracks, picking out the perfect target and moment to shoot. So Manfred left the killing to Lothar. He was a remarkable shot too and very eager for blood. He would of course have done anything his big brother told him to do, but Manfred could tell how much Lothar enjoyed that moment before he pulled the trigger, sparkling eyes and his lips trembling slightly, looking a little rosier than usual. Manfred did not know such intimate pleasure, but when he saw it on Lothar’s face it was as if it was his own pleasure. He lived through him. When Lothar took a man, an admirer, a comrade, a friend or foe, it was just like that. He didn’t need to feel the tongue on his skin to know how good it felt, he just had to watch his brother’s face. When Lothar moaned so did he, but silently, and when Lothar stroked a lad’s scalp he could feel the prickly texture under his hands and when Lothar thrust faster into those perfectly angular bodies Manfred stroked himself faster. He always waited for that perfect moment, watching and waiting at the edge, so they could come together, Lothar pumping into a willing hole and Manfred spilling on his hands and if Lothar had a particularly fine lad on his own belly too.